The Broken Promise (P7)

She grabbed my phone and opened up my texts.
I just let her.
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
By the way her eyes burned with flaming anger, I knew she had just read Paul calling me an attention whore.
She grabbed my arm.
"Come on," she ordered, dragging me out of the library. "We're gonna pay Mr. Paul a visit."
"No, please," I begged, pressing my cut-up wrist against my stomach to hide the token of my moment of weakness.
"Emily, I will not have him talking to you that way," she snarled.
"But Mary, he doesn't know I cut. He thinks I just scratched my wrist. I want to keep it that way."
She thought for a moment.
"Fine," she sighed.
We got to the place where he was still taking his Chemistry test. After a little bit, the bell rang to dismiss the exam-takers.
Paul came out. I secured my cuts in front of my stomach, looking like I was just casually keeping my left arm there.
We acted like nothing had happened last night, and walked together, talking.
I did that for the rest of the day. Then I went home, put on some band-aids, changing to a long sleeved shirt.
"Emily," my mom asked while I helped cook dinner. "What happened to your wrist?"